Best Kept Hidden
by Roadhouse Ellie
Summary: Sam and Dean confront the Yellow-Eyed Demon, and each other, in this early season 2 side-road.
1. Chapter 1

"_How did that happen? When did we become the monsters, Dean?"_

**The Happy Camper Motel, Centralia Illinois, 3:20 a.m.:**

Dean Winchester rolled over in the dark, cheap motel springs squeaking loudly. The dull glow of his wristwatch showed it was 3:20 a.m., and he had been in bed less than an hour. His brother Sam sprawled in the bed to his left, oblivious to the world, snoring just a little.

_Great_, Dean thought. _Now he's gonna saw logs all night. No wonder I can't sleep_. Immediately, Dean felt guilty, knowing that Sammy had taken a pretty hard crack to the face a couple of hours earlier. Dean was afraid his brother had broken his nose, but Sammy shrugged it off. Just wiped away the blood like nothing had happened. _Tough kid,_ Dean thought, smiling sadly in the dark _It's too bad. He shouldn't have to be._

Dean shifted in the coarse sheets, trying to find a comfortable previous few hours replayed in his mind like a bad B- film. _Hunts go wrong all the time_, Dean tried to rationalize. _We tried, they fought back, we fucked up. Game over. Move on._

**Earlier that night:**

Parked outside a white frame farm house on the outskirts of Centralia, Illinois, Dean and his younger brother argued. Dusk was falling and time was running out.

"Dean, I'm just not sure... there's a pattern here, sure, but..." Sam held up a sheaf of papers. " I mean, I'm just not sure that it's _tonight_. The vision or dream or whatever it was, it was clear, but... man.." Sam looked through the rain-spattered car window and sighed in exasperation. "I'm not sure if this is the right place." He looked back at his brother, the strain of the past few days etched in the tiny lines around his eyes. "What if I'm wrong? What if, I dunno, this is a colossal waste of time and somewhere across town, in a white house identical to this one, some poor family is getting slaughtered while I'm leading you off on some demonic wild goose chase?" He threw the papers behind him into the Impala's back seat and crossed his arms.

Dean leaned back and ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. Two nights before, Sam had a vision of a house, this _very_ house that they were sitting across the road from, bursting into flames, the family inside perishing. Save one.

"_It's a demon, Dean..." Sammy had winced in pain, grabbing onto his brother's arm for support as the vision wracked his body. "He's got a little girl... and there's fire..." _

Bit by bit, Dean had deciphered the information that Sam had seen, forced the pieces to form a picture. A few hours later, they had loaded up the Impala and were speeding towards southern Illinois. A day of research and hasty phone calls to Bobby Singer had directed them towards this moment, parked in the rain across from a brass mailbox, the name "McCoy" lettered in fancy script across the front. Waiting for any sign of unnatural activity.

"Dude," Dean said firmly, leaning toward Sam for emphasis." If you even have an inkling that there might be some sort of demonic son of a bitch lurking behind the rosebushes here, you gotta tell me _now_." Sam flinched, then looked out the window into the falling darkness.

A moment passed, then Sam finally whispered "I got nothin', man."

For the tenth time, Dean fished his battle-scarred EMF out of the floorboards and pushed the button. The machine blipped once as it powered up, then read a steady level two milligauss. No flicker, no surge, no indication of any type of magnetic field pop. He dropped the gauge back in the floor and checked his watch.

"Let's give it a bit, huh?" He gave Sam a nudge in the ribs. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained right?" No answer. Dean rubbed a hand across his weary eyes and wished for coffee.

Nothing. At midnight, the Winchester boys called it a night, both relieved and apprehensive that they had missed something. They drove in silence down the dark road for a few moments. The rain had intensified, the gentle shower giving way to a steady downpour. The few highway lights reflecting off the wet asphalt made a hypnotic pattern, and as Sam watched, he felt as if he was floating on air, maybe hovering a few inches above the car seat.. just sort of... drifting. Then the pain slammed him. Hard. Sam clutched at his temple, grabbed Dean's sleeve with his free hand.

"Dean.. ahh..stop the car... now!" Sam doubled over in pain as Dean screeched the Chevy to a halt.

"Wha... okay, okay.. hang on." He tried to grab onto Sam but Sam had fumbled the car door open, stumbled out into the now-heavy rain, kneeling in the thick mud by the roadside.

"Dean... Dean... it's here..." Sam gasped, and would have pitched headfirst into the muck had Dean not fallen to his knees beside him.

"What, Sammy.. where is it?" Dean clutched at his brother's rain-soaked shirt. He tried to lift Sam's chin, make eye contact, pull him out of the vision, but Sam was fighting back, trying to get away, crawling through the mud toward a stand of trees.

"No! No!" Sam screamed over and over, desperate to reach.. what?

Dean looked through the trees. There was a house set far back from the road. A white farm house. _Goddamn it_. He grabbed on to his baby brother and half carried, half dragged him to the car, shoved him inside and roared down the dirt road to the farm house. Right past the rusted metal rural mailbox with the name "McCreary" painted on the side.

Dean stopped the the Chevy at the edge of the front yard. Another white farm house, one of hundreds, maybe thousands scattered across southern Illinois. Despite the late hour, lamps glowed in the front windows, casting an image of homey security. _You can almost smell the freakin' apple pie_, Dean thought. He turned to look at his brother. Sam had calmed down considerably, and was wiping his eyes with his wet shirt-sleeve. He turned to Dean, eyes pleading.

"It's in there, Dean. It's inside." He chewed at his lip, tasting a mixture of mud and blood and rain.

Dean glanced at the warm, inviting house, then clapped a hand on his little brother's shoulder.

"You with me, Sammy? You okay?" Dean fought to keep his voice from going up an octave as he spoke. He didn't want to baby his brother; that would piss him off to no end. But at that moment, Sam seemed so young and vulnerable... _Damn it, he ain't little enough for you to carry around anymore!_

Sam nodded, water dripping off his hair. His brown eyes were wide with fear. Dean felt a shimmer of panic rising in his chest, then took a deep breath.

"Okay Sammy, listen to me," he held his grip on Sam's shoulder, hoping the contact would keep his brother focused, keep any more visions from clouding his head. They had work to do.

**Highway 161, Centralia Illinois, 1:00 a.m.**

"The wrong house?" Bobby Singer's voice shouted from Dean's phone. "How the hell did you get the wrong house?"

Dean held the phone away from his ear slightly until Bobby stopped yelling. He turned to look at Sam, crouched wet and miserable in the front seat of the Impala, a dirty mechanic's towel clutched to his bleeding nose. He started to remove the towel and Dean stage-whispered "Dude, you bleed in my car and I'll..." but Sammy looked so .. _damaged_... Dean stopped himself and spoke into the phone again.

"Some stuff was wrong, Bobby.. it was off or we weren't thorough enough or what the hell ever, but Sammy... he had another vision, and.. we were too late. It was inside the house already. Went up in flames about two minutes after we pulled up."

Silence on the other end, then Bobby spoke.

"God-dang it, boys, I'm so sorry... you okay?" An almost paternal tone crept into his voice; he had somewhat reluctantly become the boys' surrogate father, mother, nurse, teacher, and priest years earlier. Not much went on that Bobby didn't know about.

Dean surveyed the damage done; _Outside not so bad, but inside.. we're really screwed up_.

"Yeah, we're okay Bobby, just ... you know... kinda whipped. Gonna head to the motel and figure it out tomorrow. Thanks." Dean flipped the phone shut. He sneaked a look at Sam, who had lowered the bloody towel and was watching the darkness streak past outside the car window. He thought about telling him that it would be okay, they'd regroup and go after it again, but it was the same lie Sammy would tell him.

A few moments passed in silence, then Sam spoke, so quietly it was almost a whisper.

"She knew, Dean.. Mrs. McCreary, she knew something was wrong... but... but she thought it was us. She thought we were the bad guys." Sam sounded incredulous.

Dean glanced at his little brother, so ready to fight for truth and justice and so confused when not everyone was willing to jump on board. _How could a kid who had seen the things Sam had seen still come across as so naïve and trusting?_

"She didn't know, Sam," Dean adjusted the rear-view mirror slightly, just to have something to do. "Think about it; two weird strangers appear out of the rain and tell her she's got a demon in her house..it ain't like breaking the news that she's got termites, you know." Dean paused for a moment and the scene flashed before his eyes again:

_Raining... running up to the porch and banging on the door... Sammy sayin' "it's here it's here now Dean"... lady rips open the door, starts screamin', "You monsters!" Sam starts shoutin', husband runs up with a .22, wallops Sammy across the face, Sammy falls down, bleedin'... then the husband grabs his wife, snaps her neck and turns, yellow eyes blazing. "You lose, Winchester. Game over." And the house goes up, literally explodes... me and Sammy fall backward into the mud and rain and the screaming starts inside the house... _

"How did that happen? When did we become the monsters, Dean?"

The sleek black Chevy sped down rain-slicked Highway 161.

**The Happy Camper Motel, Centralia Illinois, 1:45 a.m.**

Dean sighed heavily. He was exhausted. He started peeling off his wet, muddy clothes, dropping them on top of Sam's discarded jeans and shirt.

"Sam, let it go. Forget it." He tossed his damp wallet, car keys and Zippo lighter on the scratched maple dresser top.

Sam, freshly showered, propped up on his bed with his computer, the glowing screen casting an eerie light across his bruised face. He fixed Dean with a stern glare.

"People died tonight, Dean... because we didn't save them." He snapped the laptop shut and stood up, wavering slightly. Visions always left him a little woozy, that and a lack of food. They hadn't eaten since the night before, a quick greasy cheeseburger grabbed on the run while Dean fueled the Impala. Neither brother had been willing to admit they were starving after witnessing the night's events. But then, going to bed hungry wasn't exactly a rare occurrence for a Winchester.

Dean stood at the bathroom door, clad only in his wet boxers. Mud streaked his face and hair, and suddenly he felt dangerously nauseous. He swallowed hard, willing the lump in his throat to disappear.

"You have to understand something, Sam.. we can't save everybody. Sometimes.. things go wrong and people die. But sometimes we can help. Sometimes we _do_ save them. Doesn't mean that when we don't, all the good stuff doesn't matter anymore, you know?"

Sam sank back onto the bed and nodded slowly. He looked at the floor for a moment, then looked up at his big brother, wet hair falling over his face, made him look about twelve years old. Dean felt a twinge in his chest. _Damn it, don't start cryin'. _

"Dean.." Sam hesitated then asked softly, "How do you go on? How do you put it behind you?"

Dean leaned back against the bathroom door frame and crossed his arms, trying to look as casual as possible when standing wet and half naked in front of his little brother.

"Dad told me once that the worst monster you'll ever have to face is your own conscience." Dean looked up at the ceiling, for just a moment avoiding eye contact with Sam. "And I think that's true. Keep moving, Sammy, keep going forward." He grabbed a towel off the chrome rack by the door. "Left some Tylenol by your bed." Dean closed the bathroom door and the shower started up.

Sam put his laptop on the side table and popped the Tylenol, washing them down with a swig of warm Diet Cherry 7-up. He eased down onto the scratchy sheets and was asleep by the time his head hit the pillow.

The shower was running but Dean was still crouched by the toilet. He had wedged his body in the space between the toilet and tub. He didn't like to have his back to the door. Ever. You never knew... _It'll be okay in a minute, just give me a minute_. Then he vomited again, silent tears streaming down his face.

_Goddamn it, Dean, get a grip! Grow up! _But no matter how hard he tried to move on and forget, he never could. He was not a warrior like Dad wanted him to be. He understood the job, what Dad did, what Dad wanted them to carry on doing. He understood that it was for a great common good, and it was a war, and in war, bad things happened. People died, people got hurt. You can't save everyone. _Stop being such a damned baby! Do you want me to drive off and leave you here right now? __Because I will, if you don't shut the hell up, Dean..._He started to shake and nausea wracked him once more.

_Damn it Dean, do as you're told or else_... he wasn't a fearless hunter, because it scared the holy crap out of him. _I'm sorry Dad... Sorry is no excuse, Dean_.. Dad didn't get it; hitting him or punishing him for being afraid didn't make him braver, it only added to his fears. _Monsters and Dad, gotta watch out for 'em both. Two things I gotta protect Sammy from_.

He sank back against the cold tile of the bathroom wall, knees to chest, and took a deep, shaky breath. The tightness in his chest began to ease slightly. A dull ache set into his back and hip, physical reminders of the evening's battle. He flexed each arm, the muscles already beginning to tighten and protest. The shower still ran, steam drifting from between cracks in the ill-fitting curtain. Dean slowly pushed himself up from the floor, stripped off his boxers and stepped into the shower, letting the water play over his face and chest, rinsing off the dried sweat and mud. He placed his hands flat against the blue-tiled wall and leaned his head down, rivulets of water washing across the old scars and new bruises on his body, watching the muddy mixture of grime and blood swirl down the drain. _Let it go, Dean. _

**The Happy Camper Motel, Centralia Illinois, 3:39 a.m. :**

Dean lay on his back now, staring at the ceiling. A neon "Vacancy" sign flickered just outside the window. In the next bed, his brother rolled over and muttered. Dean sat bolt upright, instantly alert. He waited. Another mutter.

"Sam?" he whispered. No reply. "Sammy?"

There was a snuffling, then a cough. Then a familiar "Huh?"

Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

"You okay?"

A pause. Then finally a mumbled reply.

"Yeah, Dean... m'okay...g'night.." Then the soft snoring started up again.

Dean sank back onto the pillow carefully, rearranging the hunting knife underneath. _Sammy's okay. Guess I'll let him sleep in a little, then I'll grab us some breakfast in a couple of hours. Maybe pancakes... Sam likes pancakes... and scrambled eggs. Not too runny... and coffee... plenty of coffee.._ and finally, blissfully, Dean drifted off to sleep.

A few minutes later, Sam woke up, groggy and a little disoriented. He could hear Dean's deep breathing, figured he was asleep. It was nice, knowing that Dean was there, always right there, looking out for him. Despite his weird, screwed-up life, Sam felt very lucky that he had Dean.

Sam raised up off the bed slightly.

"Dean? Hey Dean, you asleep?" No response. "Hey... it's all gonna be okay, all right? Don' worry about anything..." Sam sank back into his pillows, eyes closing. _Pancakes... pancakes would be really good..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Best Kept Hidden **

**Chapter Two**

**The Happy Camper Motel, Centralia Illinois**

Sam Winchester snored, sniffed, and startled awake. Pain was the first sensation, followed by confusion. _What the hell happened? Where am I? Where's Dean? _Sam fumbled for the bedside clock, the numbers glowed a dull red 2:20. As the fog in his brain slowly lifted, he heard the water running... and the night's events slammed back into Sam's consciousness full force. _Damn it,_ Sam thought, rubbing a hand over his eyes, oblivious to the bruising across his face. _Damn it to hell._..

He lay in the dark for a few minutes, listening to the hiss of the shower behind the closed bathroom door. No way he was buying Dean's super-hunter act. That was Dad talking, not Dean, no matter how much Dean wanted to believe it himself.

Less than an hour earlier, Sam had asked his older brother a very direct question, one that Sam knew the answer to, but couldn't bring himself to believe.

"_Dean.." Sam hesitated then asked "How do you go on? How do you put it behind you?" _

_Dean leaned back against the bathroom door frame and crossed his arms._

"_Dad told me once that the worst monster you'll ever have to face is your own conscience. And I think that's true. Keep moving, Sammy, keep going forward."_

You can't live with someone 24/7 and not know exactly what they're thinking and feeling almost every minute of the day. Sam shifted in the too-small motel bed, then rolled to his side. His nose was swollen and breathing was an effort. He tucked his arm under his pillow and gazed at Dean's empty bed.

_Dean, you keep me safe from the bad guys and the monsters in the closet and Dad.. you don't have to keep me safe from you, too. _God, all the crap they'd been through in their lives, dealing with ghosts and demons and crazy sons of bitches... how could Dean think his little brother was so dumb ? That Dean Winchester can salt and burn with abandon, then just file it all away and not think about it? _Does he have that low an opinion of me? _

Because Sam knew, without a doubt, that his big strong brother, in whose hands he put his life every day without hesitation, was curled into a ball in the bathroom, throwing up and crying, thinking that the running water drowned the sound of his fear and pain. Just as he had done after almost every single hunt, since they were kids.

Exhausted, Sam drifted back to sleep.

**Trade Winds Motel, Evanston Illinois: May 1990:**

Sam remembered sitting at the end of the twin bed in a shabby motel room, _another_ shabby motel room in a long string of almost indistinguishable motels. All along the end of the floral quilt , green plastic army men were lined up, fighting another in an endless series of Sammy-driven battles. The TV flickered in the background, on more for company than anything else. The floor was littered with crunched-up Lucky Charms cereal, the half-empty box sitting on the floor by his brother's discarded backpack.

Sam was tired of playing war, but there was nothing else to do and he had been alone for four hours now. When you're seven years old, boredom comes easily. He sighed and turned, leaning back against the bed and tilting his head up to watch the college football game on the wall-mounted TV. There was nothing else on; the reception was awful and only one channel came through. He couldn't reach the knob to shut it off anyway.

Car doors slammed outside the room and Sam jumped up immediately, relieved that he wasn't on his own anymore. Then he heard his father yelling. He sat back down and quickly scraped his army men into a paper bag.

"...one thing, Dean, one damned thing... and you screw it up!" the door flew open and John Winchester pushed his older son into the room. Sam shrank back against the end of the bed, trying to be as small as possible. _When Dad gets mad, Sammy, just stay out of his way, okay?_

_J_ohn grabbed Dean by the upper arm and turned to Sam.

"Sammy, can you go outside and sit on the steps? I need to talk to your brother." At _brother_, John jerked Dean's arm. Sam knew Daddy meant business and scuttled to the door, giving his angry father a wide berth.

"Stay on the sidewalk, son, so I can see you."

Sammy hesitated at the door. He turned back and saw Dean's face; a red mark welted across one cheek and Daddy's fingers were digging into Dean's arm, pulling him up awkwardly.

"Just go outside,Sammy, I'll come play army men with you in a couple of minutes, okay?" Dean gave his little brother what he hoped was smile but to Sammy, Dean looked like he was going to throw up.

Sammy glanced at his father, who shooed him on, and he closed the door, the lock clicking loudly as it shut. _When I get bigger_, he thought, _I'm not gonna let Daddy yell at Dean ever_. But Sam Winchester was seven years old and he had only one defense. He turned, ran all the way to the end of the cracked cement walkway and sat down on the curb, his hands over his ears.


	3. Chapter 3

**Best Kept Hidden**

**Chapter 3**

**Happy Camper Motel, Centralia Illinois, 8:23 a.m.**:

Sunlight crept through the broken slats of the window blinds, playing shards of light across the cluttered room. Damp, muddy clothing was piled in a heap by the door, a backpack slung carelessly on the floor beside it. An old army duffel sat at the end of one bed, it's contents spilling out into a heap on the dingy grey carpeting.

The bathroom door creaked open slowly, then the rusting hinges emitted a loud squeal.

"Damn it!" Dean Winchester swore. He was trying his best to be quiet, attempting to let his brother sleep in. They rarely had the opportunity to catch a few extra hours rest, but Sammy seemed so, well... devastated by last night's hunt gone wrong. Dean figured it'd do the kid good to be lazy for once. Dad had sure never encouraged it; when they were younger, John Winchester made sure his boys saw the sun rise every day. _Outta bed, boys, we're burnin' daylight... _The habit had been instilled in Dean since before he learned to read, but Sammy, well.. Sammy just wasn't cut out to play junior Marine at five a.m.

Dean stepped carefully over a discarded potato chip bag and Sam's empty laptop case and peered at his sleeping brother. Hard to tell in the half-light but it looked like Sam was sporting a mean shiner and a nasty bruise across his left cheek. _Play that up, little brother_, Dean thought, _pathetic always gets free pie at the diner_. Sympathetic motherly waitresses were an easy mark for his brother's puppy-dog eyes; hurt puppy, well, that was just bonus points.

**Kitty's Truck Stop, Cape Girardeau, Missouri June 1990**

Seven year old Sammy was already asleep in the bed he and his big brother Dean shared when the motel phone jangled. Dad had been dozing, still clad in jeans and t-shirt, for a couple of hours. He sprang up, instantly alert and sounding pretty damned sober, considering. Dean held his breath and listened to the quick, whispered conversation. After four or five minutes, Dad hung up the phone and crossed the few steps to the boys' bed.

"Dean?" he said sharply and Dean instantly sat bolt upright, leaning slightly away from his father.

"Yes sir?" he asked in a small voice. _Best answer quick_. Something big was up, Dean knew, but he didn't know what. Dad had been out of sorts, really touchy, more so than usual. The slightest thing would set him off into a rage, then it was up to Dean to keep the peace. Or not.

John Winchester drew a hand slowly across his ragged beard, feeling the stubble tug at his fingers.

"Gotta help out a friend, son. Gonna be in Indiana for a few days. I need you to stay here and look after Sammy." John turned, grabbed his duffel bag off the floor and threw in on his bed. He stuffed a handful of items from the nightstand into the bag and zipped it, then dragged on his old leather jacket. He turned back to his older son.

"No screwing around, Dean. I mean it." John pointed a stern figure at Dean and Dean flinched slightly, then nodded his head.

John dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out some cash.

"That ought to be plenty," John dropped a fistful of crumpled bills and change in an ashtray on the dresser, mumbled "Watch your brother," and left without a goodbye.

The motel room door squeaked and then slammed, and Dean heard the key turn in the lock. He sat, unmoving, until he heard Dad's car engine crank and the Chevy wheeling out of the parking place. Then he relaxed, sank back onto his pillow and fell immediately asleep.

A few hours later, Dean picked his way across mud puddles and cracked asphalt in the rutted parking lot of The Truckers Inn, leading his little brother by the hand. Heavy rains had come after midnight, drowning out the sound of the big rigs motoring in and out of the adjoining truck stop. The dark skies still threatened, and Dean figured they should grab food before the downpour started again.

"Ooh Dean, look!" Sammy pointed with his free hand at the puddles. "It's got rainbows in the water!" Iridescent slicks of oil mixed with the rainwater, making a shimmery prism. It would have been pretty, Dean thought, if he hadn't been distracted by the cast on Sammy's left wrist.

"_I hurted it jumping on my bed," Sammy had piped up in the ER last week. "I was being Robin and Dean was being Batman." __John had gently scolded his sons for the benefit of the nurses, who plied Sammy with ice cream and stickers. No one on the hospital staff would ever have dreamed that this wide-eyed adorable seven year old and_ _his well-behaved big brother could lie so smoothly. _

Dean shook his head at the thought.

"Come on, dude," he said, gently tugging Sammy along. "Pancakes sound good?"

Kitty's Truck Stop waitresses were equally charmed by both Winchester boys; Sammy repeated his Batman and Robin story, mostly because, by now, he thought it was true.

_Dean had told him what to say before they headed to the hospital, Sam sniffling and cradling his broken wrist as they both sat in the big backseat of Dad's Chevy. It had been a couple of hours since Dad, a few drinks into a restless evening, had grabbed Sammy by the hand and jerked it upward. Dean remembered in a blur, running to the ice machine, wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve as he ran, trying hard to stop crying before he got back to the room so Dad wouldn't get any angrier. "Wrestling around on the bed, I told 'em somebody was gonna get hurt, boys will be boys, right? Ha ha."_

The boys sat in a red leatherette booth, surrounded by remains of breakfast. One of the older waitresses, a red-haired fireplug called Judy, brought over a brown paper bag.

"Here ya go, darlin," she said, plunking the bag down in front of Sammy. She shot a high-beam smile at Dean, who smiled right back , despite the split lip Dad had given him after dinner last night. Then she turned to Sammy. "Now, don't be throwin' no more Matchbox cars at your brother, okay?" Sammy nodded enthusiastically while he shoveled the last huge bite of Dean's pancakes in his mouth. The kid had a hollow leg, Uncle Bobby liked to say.

"There's three pieces of pie in that bag, sweetie," Judy told Dean. "On the house. You boys make sure and save some for Daddy when he gets home from work tonight, okay?" She sauntered off, flashing the nicotine-stained grin one more time.

Dean carefully counted out money for the bill, and some extra (months and months ago, Uncle Bobby told him all about tips, and why hard-working people needed them), then he gathered up the paper bag and Sammy and headed out the door. Sammy ran ahead, jumping in the rainbow-puddles, shouting "I'm Robin! Yay!" Dean walked a few paces behind his brother, watching for trucks and traffic.

_Ah, the hell with it, _Dean thought, then broke into a run. He galloped up behind Sammy and shouted "Come on, Robin! Let's go fight the Joker!" Sammy squealed in delight and they two brothers raced in dizzying circles around the Trucker Inn parking lot, splashing through the puddles.


	4. Chapter 4

**Best Kept Hidden**

**Chapter Four**

**Kirkland's Diner, Salem, Illinois**

Dean Winchester pushed back against the cracked vinyl seat and ran a hand across his stomach, now almost uncomfortably full. Two eggs, (_over hard, darlin'_), bacon and sausage (_Go ahead Dean, order snout, it's the only part of the pig not on your plate yet_) and a short stack. Side of buttered toast. And working on a second pot of coffee. Dean picked up a crust of toast off his plate and pointed it across the table at Sam.

"Stop pickin' at your food, Sammy," Dean gestured at Sam's almost-full plate, then popped the crust into his mouth.

Sam sat, head down, shoulders drooping. He dragged a fork through his scrambled eggs, shoving them into little piles. Finally he dropped the fork onto the plate with a clatter and leaned back, sighing.

"I can't deal, Dean," Sam said quietly. "That family. We could have done something. It's just so... unnecessary. It's not fair."

Dean shot a glance around the small diner, then practically laid across the table.

"Dude," he hissed. "Get a grip. Life's not fair. Nothin' is fair. If it was, Mom and Dad would be on a second honeymoon in Hawaii and we'd be bangin' the Olsen twins."

At that, Sam rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his over-long brown hair.

"You know, Dean, I'm so happy that you can make jokes about this, you know?" Sam was starting to sound exasperated. "Dead people, ha ha, hilarious." He bit his lip, stopping himself from saying anything more. He knew what he said was unfair and absolutely untrue, but Sam was so tired of dealing with Dean's forced bravado that the coming confrontation was not only inevitable, it was essential. They could only last so long walking on eggshells. Something had to give.

Dean waved at the waitress and started to dig his wallet out of his pocket.

"We are so _not_ doing this here, Sam. Go get in the car. I'll get the check." He fixed his little brother with a hard stare that meant _Now_, and Sam started to slide out of the booth. The chubby young waitress hurried over, tucking a strand mousy brown hair behind her ear as she trotted to the table. She tore the check off the pad and slid it to Dean, then handed Sam a paper bag.

"Huh?" Sam started to ask but she leaned in and whispered loudly "Pie, for later. You look like you could use some cheerin' up, sweetie." She tsk-tsked, eyeing his bruises, and patted his hand. "You take care now, y'hear?" She hurried away to refill coffee mugs two tables down.

Dean dug a few bills out of his wallet and stuck them, along with the check, underneath his coffee cup. He raised an eyebrow at Sam as they stood up.

"Well, look at that, Francis... free pie." He fished car keys out of a his jeans pocket. "Some touches, you just never lose.

Moments later, after a hissed "Don't slam my fucking car doors, you moron" and an equally snippy "I'm _sooo_ sorry", the brother sat in silence in the diner parking lot as Dean unfolded the road atlas. Sam sat staring at his hands, which he folded in his lap, then finally spoke.

"Dean," Sam spoke so quietly that he was afraid his brother wouldn't hear him over the crackling of the pages. He cleared his throat and repeated, a little more loudly. "Dean..." and flinched as the older Winchester threw the map into the backseat.

"What?" Dean demanded angrily, green eyes blazing.

"What the hell is your problem, dude?" Sam exploded. " We need to sort this crap out! Something big and nasty crawled out of Hell, right under our noses, and it's just teasing us. Playing with us, man. It knew us, Dean... it said our name. Does that not fucking _freak_ you out?"

Dean sat unblinking, during Sam's tirade. Only a rhythmic clenching of his jaw gave away the tremendous tension he was feeling. His lack of reaction only infuriated Sam more.

"We can't just blow this off and leave, Dean.. not until we figure out what the hell this thing is and why it lured us here in the first place."

No answer.

Sam sighed and shook his head.

"So I guess you just want to walk away, right? We lost this fight, but no big deal, we'll catch up with it in Omaha or Cincinnati or wherever the hell..." He knew that goading Dean was a dangerous ploy, but what else did he have?

"Maybe we can pick up a body trail in a couple of weeks, or maybe if we're really lucky, I can get another stupid vision and have it leave a big red X on the map... unless of course we're just _moving on_." The words were barely out of Sam's mouth before his big brother finally reacted.

Dean leaned forward and hit his brother, hard, in the shoulder. Pain exploded in Sam's already bruised body, and he gasped and started to raise his hands to protect himself. Dean grabbed at Sam's shirt with both hands and dragged him toward the driver's seat. Sam winced as Dean leaned in, his breath hot against Sam's neck and almost whispered.

"Don't you ever... _ever_... accuse me of being a quitter." Dean shoved him back across the car seat, where Sam bounced painfully against the heavy chrome door handle. Tears glistened in Dean's eyes as he continued. "I don't know what to do next, Sam. So if you think we're kind of screwed here, well, yeah, genius... we kinda are. You're right, people did die. We fucked up, it's on our heads, man. But I don't know what to do different." Sam huddled, unmoving, eyes fixed on his brother, as Dean continued. "I don't know everything, Sam. Sometimes, I think I don't know _anything_." He wiped a hand angrily across his eyes. His words came out in a rush.

"I'm sorry, Sammy... I let those people down, and worse, I let you down. I let you walk into something we weren't ready for." Guilt flooded Dean as he confessed. "And yeah, that it knows us personally freaks me out. It scares the shit out of me. This whole weird freak-show scares me, Sammy. It's not _right_. This is not what people should do with their lives." He stopped suddenly, looking out the car window at the diner entrance, where a couple were walking in, laughing, as the grey haired man held the door for his companion. Dean's voice dropped to an almost imperceptible level, and Sam leaned forward, straining to hear.

"Everyday people, Sammy, they have no idea what's out there. When I was little, I used to wish for normal. I wanted to be one of those people who just woke up, lived their lives and went to bed at night. Worst thing that would happen is they'd get heartburn from the chili they had for dinner. I wanted that so much, man..." Dean shook his head slowly. "But I knew I was never gonna have normal. So I wanted it for you. I tried so hard to keep you away from it but no matter what I did, you kept getting dragged back into this sick, fucked-up life we have." He slumped back into the driver's seat, facing the windshield.

There were a million things he could have said, most of which would have made the situation worse. So Sam went with what he felt would start to patch the rift between them.

"Hey Dean... you can have my pie." Sam looked expectantly at his brother.

A slow small, smile spread across Dean's face.

"Never met a Winchester yet who would turn down free pie, Sammy." Dean stole a quick glance at his little brother. "Hey, I'm sorry I pushed you... you okay?"

Sam nodded and swallowed.

"I'm sorry for making you _want_ to push me. It's just that... Dean, seriously, you know that no matter what, we can talk about stuff, right?" Sam paused, watching as Dean scraped his thumbnail across the Chevy's steering wheel. Dean always was a fidgeter, especially when he was stressed.

"Y'know, Dad would have our hides for fightin', right?" Dean's fingers continued to play across the curve of the wheel as he spoke. Sam nodded again, eyes down, buttoning and unbuttoning his shirt cuff for the hundredth time. "I know you can't just quit thinkin' about stuff, Sammy. And you and me, we'll figure this mess out. I promise."

Dean plugged the key into the ignition and the car roared to life.

"Where to?" Dean asked his little brother.

Sam snapped out of his daydream and fumbled for his seatbealt.

"Uh, okay... I think maybe we should head up to Bobby's for a while. Fresh eyes, right? I mean, maybe he can see something we're missing. Maybe we're too close to it." Sam reached back and grabbed the road atlas. "seven hundred, seven hundred fifty miles, give or take. We can do that, two days easy, right?"

"Sure thing, dude. Two days. _If_ we stop to shave our legs and buy a new purse." Dean shot his brother a _I seriously can't believe you _look. He snagged a cassette tape at random from the shoe box between the car seats

"One day... or I owe you the biggest steak dinner they got in Sioux Falls."

Sam gave a shaky grin.

"Okay, whatever.. just get us there is one piece, all right?" Sam rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. The first few notes of Zeppelin's _Black Dog_ pinged through the car speakers as the black Chevy's tires crunched on the gravel parking lot, headed toward South Dakota.


	5. Chapter 5

Best Kept Hidden

Chapter Five

Highway 90, Fill 'Er Up Gas, east of Sioux Falls

The black Chevy eased off the highway, carefully crunching over the gravel, and stopped under the faded striped canopy that covered the gas pumps. Dean stole a look at his sleeping brother; Sam had faded out about a hundred and fifty miles earlier, slumping and sprawling by degrees, until his lanky frame practically draped over the leather bench seat. Not a particularly comfortable way to catch a nap, but they both realized there was rarely a perfect night's sleep in store.

Dean rubbed his eyes wearily. They had driven straight through, except for one brief fuel stop in Center Point, Iowa, for about six hundred miles and about forty more would bring them into Sioux Falls. He needed to gas up his baby, fuel his own stomach and he desperately needed to pee. He leaned across the seat and thumped Sam across the chest lightly.

"Appletinis all around Francis... " Dean forced a brightness into his voice that he didn't really feel. No sense being all snappy and setting a tone for the rest of the night.

Sam startled awake, sniffed and wiped his hand across his mouth. _Drool_, _great_. He blinked blearily and asked in a mumble "Where are we?"

Dean popped the clasp on his seatbelt and peered into the darkness.

"Smack Middle of Jack Nowhere, looks like," he said, pushing the car door open and stepping out into the chilly air. He turned back and leaned into the open door. "Hafta, _hafta_ take a leak, man. Seriously."

_(Men's Room)_

The too-small, grimy bulb cast a sickly grey shadow over the stained porcelain basin, once-yellow walls rubbed and scrubbed a dingy shade of tan. The floor... sticky didn't even begin to describe it.

Dean stood at the urinal, idly reading the graffiti that seemed to adorn every square inch of the cement wall. One or two entries made him laugh out loud; some were deep and thoughtful and oddly poignant in that particular setting; a couple were just plain disgusting.

Dean's eyes wandered across the wall, left to right, reading in order (a personal quirk, one he never cared to share with Sam). A flicker of movement on his right startled him, and he stumbled back a step.

_God, just a reflection in the mirror_, Dean sighed inwardly. He zipped, buckled and ambled over to the leaky basin to wash his hands. No soap in the dispenser... no surprise there. A hasty rinse in the vaguely brown tap water, then Dean snapped off a couple of paper towels from the plastic holder nailed to the wall.

As he dried his hands, his gaze drifted across the chipped mirror. And, just at that moment, time seemed to stand still as Dean read the message scratched into the cracked glass.

_Howdy Dean-See you boys soon. Love, Daddy._

Seconds, minutes or hours later, Dean dropped the towel, hit the door, and broke into a dead run.

March 1995, Wasatch Mountains, Utah.

What started off to be a three day hunting expedition in Idaho stretched into a week, then two. Dad had been gone longer than that before, but Dean and Sam had never been so _alone_. The double-paned windows of the small log cabin showed an expanse of white nothingness... in every direction. Snow, trees, then more snowy trees. Sixteen year old Dean seemed to revel in the solitude, where Sam felt somehow trapped in the expanse.

On the fifth day of John Winchester's absence, Sam began his first journal.

"I'm not sure what to write but if I keep busy then Dean will leave me alone, probably. It snowed again today hahaha.. it snows every day. Dad has been gone since Monday, and this is Friday so duh, he's been gone for five days. Dean spends all day sharpening knives and cleaning the guns, like we have anything to cut or shoot.

I miss school a lot. I don't even mind being the new kid all the time; but it would be pretty cool to stay in one place long enough to have friends and go to their houses and eat dinner and hang out and watch TV. I wouldn't want them to come to my house even though I like Dean a lot and he's very cool but I don't tell him because he'll get all stuck-up... but I would hate for my friends to know what a weirdo my dad is. Honest to god, Dad's not just embarrassing; I think he's probably a lot more dangerous than anybody knows.

The truth is, Dad scares me. I started thinking one day, what if all this stuff he told me and Dean about demons and monsters and stuff just isn't true? What if it's just Dad being crazy? What if he killed Mom? What if he tries to kill us? Dean trusts Dad, no matter what. He would never even think that might be possible, but I do. In fact, it's sort of on my mind all the time. Every time I look at Dad I wonder, are you really my Dad? Are you some murderer just telling us so, and you killed my real mom and dad and stole me and Dean? But if he did, Bobby would know, and why would Bobby lie? There has to be something else behind it all, some true real reason that Dad treats Dean like he's stupid but looks at me like.. I dunno.. like he's waiting for me to start something. Like he's challenging me.

I guess I gotta go and help Dean make dinner. Maybe if Dad is gone long enough I can talk to Dean about this idea...

Hey, guess what? It's snowing again. Hahaha."


	6. Chapter 6

**Singer's Auto Salvage, outside Sioux Falls, North Dakota 11:45p.m.**

Dead silence.

No crickets, no sounds of traffic on the highway, no breeze. No dogs barking in the distance, no restless cattle lowing. Nothing moved. No branches swayed.. The utter stillness in the cool night air brought a chill to Dean's very core.

Sam fished a keyring out of his pocket, straining to see in the dark, finally finding the keyhole, then turning the knob slowly as Dean stood by, .45 in hand.

Inside, as outside; nothing.

Bobby Singer was nowhere to be found, his battered Chevy Nova and usual Army travel duffel missing. No phone call to alert them to a change of plans, no note on the kitchen table. A hasty search first, then a slower more thorough one; both turned up the same results. Nothing.

Half an hour later, Sam looked once again around the untidy living room, desperately searching for a clue to Bobby's absence.

"But.." he said for the fourth or fifth time, "He knew we were coming. He _knew_ we were on our way." He prodded the fringe on the rose-patterned rug with the toe of his boot. "Dean?"

Dean was speechless. They had tried repeatedly to contact Bobby by phone after Dean's discovery in the gas station bathroom, but time after time, the call went straight to Bobby's voice mail. Dean was at his wit's end. Periods of frantic planning, interspersed with long stretches of nervous silence filled the hour and a half drive from the Fill 'Er Up. Both brothers assumed that Bobby would somehow have the clue, the key, the missing piece they needed to make this whole nightmarish incident make sense.

But now, Bobby was gone. And Sam and Dean were left, once again, to handle things alone.

Sam had the sense of mind to at least make a pot of coffee in the face of impending doom; he and Dean sat in Bobby's dusty book-crowded office, hoping for a spark of inspiration.

"I don't get it, dude," Dean said "And by that, I mean," he leaned back in the creaky wooden desk chair and plunked his heavy boots on the scarred walnut desk top. "I have been over this a million times in my mind. We've hashed out every angle, gone over every detail.. and we still got nothin'."

Sam shifted in the leather wing chair, an intense scowl on his face. It was what Dean called his 'thinking face'.

"Dean..." Sam started then stopped, pursing his lips. He continued, all in a rush, like he did when an idea had hit him suddenly. "Dean, what if maybe.. maybe it is? I mean, maybe it _was_ Dad?"

"Dean ran a hand through his short hair and sighed.

"News flash there, Sammy. Dad is dead, real-live dead." He puffed out his cheeks in a sigh. "It's somethin'... it's the same thing, man. Some freaky demon trick, some, I dunno.. spirit or djinn or what the hell ever. We know it's the same thing that lured us to Illinois and all the hell over the place... just like it was screwin' with us." He reached for his coffee cup and drained the last swallow. "Dad is not gonna walk out of Hell. Trust me on that one."

The lights flickered suddenly, and Sam and Dean were instantly alert. There was a crash in the front room, wood and glass splintering and raining down on the plank floors.

Somebody was home, and it wasn't Bobby Singer.

**Singer's Auto Salvage, 1996**

Dean called it "The Summer of Debra"... never to Dad's face, of course, but that's what it was: the summer Dad "fell in love" (Sam's version)/"got the hots for" (Dean's version) a gum-snapping, smart aleck waitress in Des Moines. In truth, it was more like "The Two Weeks of Debra," but that didn't have quite the same nostalgic charm...

During a hunt in Iowa, a casual breakfast at the Happy Clucker Diner changed John Winchester from an obsessively compulsive demon hunter to a doe-eyed lovestruck teenager... somewhere between the cheese grits and the second cup of coffee. John met Debra for lunch at the diner, dinner at Little Italy and breakfast... well, Sam and Dean did not want to know. Somewhere during Day Three of the Summer of Debra, John handed Dean the keys to his Impala, told him to pack up his fourteen year old brother and insisted the boys head up to Uncle Bobby's, for a little R&R.

That was when the trouble really began.

Under John's watchful eye, and oppressive thumb, Dean and Sam rarely got to indulge in the usual brotherly spats and scuffles. Sure more than a few times they'd come to blows, but inevitably danger brought them closer than before... until they were so close, they became almost an extension of each other.

The Summer of Debra changed that forever.

Bobby refused to intervene, called it quits when it came to refereeing. He told them to figure it out on their own.

"Unless one of you idjits is bleedin; from the ears or the house is on fire, I don't want to hear about it. You all just fight it out however you see fair. But lemme warn you both," he said, eyes narrowing, pointing a beefy finger at each brother in turn, "you both best _keep_ it fair. We don't fight dirty in this house, and we don't break no furniture. Anything to the contrary, I'll be getting' the belt off that hook in the closet, you hear me?"

True to his word, Bobby let the brothers hash it out in bloody, knuckle-scraping, name-calling showdowns. Dean was bossy, foul-mouthed and full of himself. Sammy was whiny, irritating and sneaky. They kept it fair, or as fair as possible, and the belt stayed on the hook in the closet.

The Summer of Debra passed in a flash, as time does in a kid's world. Back on the road with John, both Sam and Dean silently longed for the comfortable familiarity of Bobby's overstuffed flea market of a house; regular meals at normal times, a chance to sit around the scarred maple table and talk, just _talk_... about anything and more often, about nothing at all. At Bobby's house, Sam and Dean were never expected to be more than what they were; not soldiers, not warriors, but just two normal kids growing up influenced by their father's very eccentric lifestyle.

That was also the summer when both Sam and Dean started to regret being Winchesters. They never shared it, but they were having almost identical fantasies; Dad leaves, or dies, or runs away with some woman, and leaves them with Bobby. Most often, Dean's fantasy had Dad dying while bravely fighting evil. Sam... well, Sam just wanted him to go away, in whatever way was necessary. Dean always felt guilty after having those thoughts.

Sam never did.


	7. Chapter 7

**Singer's Auto Salvage, outside Sioux Falls, South Dakota. 12:24 a.m.**

"_Dean..." Sam started then stopped, pursing his lips. He continued, all in a rush, like he did when an idea had hit him suddenly. "Dean, what if maybe.. maybe it is? I mean, maybe it was Dad?"_

"_Dean ran a hand through his short hair and sighed._

"_News flash there, Sammy. Dad is dead, real-live dead." He puffed out his cheeks in a sigh. "It's somethin'... it's the same thing, man. Some freaky demon trick, some, I dunno.. spirit or djinn or what the hell ever. We know it's the same thing that lured us to Illinois and all the hell over the place... just like it was screwin' with us." He reached for his coffee cup and drained the last swallow. "Dad is not gonna walk out of Hell. Trust me on that one."_

_The lights flickered suddenly, and Sam and Dean were instantly alert. There was a crash in the front room, wood and glass splintering and raining down on the plank floors. _

_Somebody was home, and it wasn't Bobby Singer._

Sam and Dean stood, rooted to the floor as if the dusty cabbage roses on the rug had twined thick vines around their boots, holding them fast. Both stared toward the hallway, but neither could or would make eye contact. Not a sound passed between them. Not a breath.

Then, the voice. Unmistakable. It boomed through the halls of Bobby Singer's house, just as it had off the thin walls of countless roach-infested motels. Just as it had over the backseat of the black Chevy. Just as it had in that remote log cabin, where they had hidden, wounded and afraid, and waited for the Yellow-Eyed Demon to find them.

"Hey, boys! Come give Daddy a hug!"

Footsteps echoed down the wooden plank flooring, coming closer. Sam finally shot a quick glance at Dean. _Dean will know what to do_, he thought. His big brother was always his saviour, his guardian and protector. Dean always had a plan, no matter how half-assed and haphazard.

Not this time.

"Dean?" Sam stage-whispered. When his brother failed to react he repeated "Dean!"

Dean finally tore his eyes off the doorway and looked at Sam. It was at that moment, that precise second, fraction of an instant.... Sam saw Dean again as a scared fourteen year old, facing down a furious father, standing up to accept another punishment, lying down for all the abuse their father cared to dish out.

The footsteps stopped just outside the office doorway.

"Dean?" Sam whispered once more, biting his lip, trying to will back the tears. _Think, Sam! _He frantically scanned the office, fists clenching and unclenching, looking for some object, some talisman, some _thing_... because _this_ time, Dad was literally as mad as Hell.

**1426 Mulberry Street, Bossier City, Louisiana, November 1990**

"Dean?" Sammy asked plaintively, cuddling up under the ragged crocheted afghan, drawing his knees up to his chest. "I'm cold and I have to pee." He wiped his sniffly nose with the ragged flannel shirt cuff clenched around his fist. "I don't like this, it ain't _camping_."

Dean sighed heavily and scooted closer to his brother, scuffing up the damp earth beneath them.

"Do you really, really have to pee, or are you just bored?" he asked for the fourth time in an hour. He knew Sam didn't take well to sitting quietly.

"Gotta pee, for sure," Sammy replied, scuffing his cuff under his nose again. He managed to throw the puppy-dog glance at Dean, which though barely discernible in the gloom, was convincing enough for his brother.

"Okay," Dean said, "but you gotta remember to keep quiet. For real, dude... just to the edge and back fast, you got it?"

"'kay!" Sammy wriggled out from beneath the blanket, leaving it heaped in the dirt. He crawled to the edge, as Dean indicated, trying hard to be quiet. Settling on his knees, he unzipped his jeans. He wished he _was_ camping; he wished they were at Yellowstone National Park, like in the nature program he saw on TV. Families camping and laughing, fishing and hiking and staying in big canvas tents with zipper doors and roaring campfires and big pots of stew and S'mores. And there would be bears; big vicious grizzly bears and black bears. Sam loved bears.

Sam wished there was a bear there now, and that the front door on their rented house was made of zippered screen, so the bear could just barge right up, slashing it open with it's huge curved claws. The bear would walk right into their house.

And the bear would eat Dad.

Sam smiled at the thought. Then it would be just him and his brother, no dad to push them around or hit them or make them move away from schools they liked.

Sam zipped his pants and crawled back on his hands and knees to where his brother waited. They sat close, conserving body heat, and Dean draped the blanket over their knees, pulling it up beneath Sam's chin.

They sat like this, in the crawlspace underneath the screened porch of the old house in Bossier City, for the next four hours. In a while, Dad would stumble out of the house, throw a bag and a bottle of Jack into the backseat of the Chevy and head to Oklahoma on his next hunt. When he was safely gone, the boys could go back inside, out of the chilly November night air. Until then, Dean daydreamed about the cute blonde cheerleader in his home room class.

Sam dozed and dreamed of bears.


	8. Chapter 8

**Singer's Auto Salvage, outside Sioux Falls South Dakota, 12:25 a.m.**

Sam and Dean stood, eyes fixed on the office doorway. Three steps, two... he was almost there. Dad was almost in the room.

A million questions filled Sam's mind, all whirling together like fear and confusion and a vague nausea jammed into a mental Cuisinart. He wanted to blink, he wanted to look away, but he had to... felt _compelled_... powerless to see anything but the dark hallway outside the office. He wanted to look at Dean, but what he might see scared him almost as much as what was on it's way down the hall.

One step.

John Winchester swaggered into the room, leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms.

"Boo," he said calmly. Then he burst out laughing.

Sam and Dean had taken identical half steps backward, eyes never leaving their father.

John snickered once more, rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat.

"Oh, you oughta see the looks on your faces right now. Priceless."

Dean faltered back another step and finally managed to stammer out "What... how...?"

John held up a hand and Dean fell silent.

"I've been expecting the drama part, girls... the "Oh daddy, are you evil now? How did you climb outta Hell?" Crap like that. Best explanation, though," he stopped and pulled a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket. "Shit happens. I know a guy who knows a guy... but I guess you probably know that by now."

He flicked the green plastic lighter in his hand and puffed on the cigarette. He looked at each of the boys in turn.

"You gotta admit though, Illinois was a joy-ride, huh? Fun times." He looked up at the ceiling through a blue haze of smoke, then added. "Probably should cut back on the smokes... they'll KILL ya!" and burst out laughing again.

Dean finally found his voice and took a step forward. He clenched his fists so no one could see his hands shaking.

"Whoever you are.. whatever you are, you ain't Dad." Dean stood, defiant.

John threw the cigarette down in frustration and whirled on Dean.

"How fucking stupid are you, huh? How completely brain-dead must you be? Even Sammy here," he gestured at Sam," he's figured it out now, right? Huh?"

Sam swallowed and looked from his brother to his father and back again. He had known it the moment John walked into the room, Pieces of a life-long puzzle fell into place; all the hunts, all the talk of demons and spirits and wickedness... John Winchester hadn't taken the boys on a hunt against evil; he had taken them along for the _ride_.

"Dean.." Sam stammered out, then cleared his throat. "Dean... the Yellow-Eyed Demon never _was_ in dad. Dad... ah...was _in_ the Yellow-Eyed Demon."

Dean looked as if he had been slapped. Realization that his whole life had been a lie dawned, and white-hot rage welled up in it's place. He whirled on his father, or what looked like his father, anyway.

"Why?" he yelled, grabbing the nearest thing at hand (Bobby's wooden desk chair) and throwing it at John, who neatly stepped to the side. The chair splintered harmlessly against the fireplace.

"Why would you do that to us? Drag us through all that shit? Fuck up our lives?" Dean was almost in tears, but this time, tears of frustration and anger.

John crouched down slightly, palms flat on his knees as if he were talking to a child.

"Well, sweetie, as Daddy explained, he's _eee_-vil..." and then he chuckled.

Sam had taken t he exchange as long as he could. Finally, he stepped forward, toward John, who raised his hands in mock horror.

"Oh no, little sister's gonna get in on the act now!" John laughed.

"You creepy-assed motherfucker..." Sam almost spat at him. Hundreds of miles of dark roads loomed in Sam's memory, dozens of schools started and left behind, the isolation, the fear, the absolute, _unknowing_...

"Oh come on!" John shouted, frustrated at their lack of enthusiasm. "I am a crazy evil fucking son of a bitch... I got a free ride from Hell, boys.. all access, get-out-of-goddamned-jail-free card! Every single time!" He puffed out a sigh. "Evil.. is what I do. Screwing with people's heads.. it's my calling card. Jacking up lives... my bread and butter." He looked at Sam and Dean, shaking his head. "Seriously, I am disappointed. I tried so _hard, _I figured it'd be a piece of cake to lead two dumb impressionable little kids down some dark path of sin and perversion... you both disappoint me deeply."

Sam was rattled, to say the least. The depth of what Dad, or whatever the hell, was saying.. it was almost impossible to comprehend. It had to be demon tricks... no other explanation. At least not the one he was being handed now..

"But... what about my visions?" he asked, hoping to catch John in a lie.

John laughed uproariously, snorted and wiped his nose.

"Oh man, that's rich..." he chortled. He sniffed and wiped his eyes. "The visions, Sammy... the visions aren't _you_. The visions are _me_. I put things in your head, you react. It's all part of the game. What the hell... you think you're Sylvia Brown or some shit? I hate to burst your bubble, baby boy, but the only power you have are the power to get on my nerves." He crossed to a shabby overstuffed armchair and plopped down, crossing his legs.

"So, I've been thinking... what's say we hit the road again, just like old times? Me, you two, saving people, hunting things... heh heh. The family business, so to speak. But this time, you kids could play a much bigger part. I'd let ya do some killin'.. whaddaya say? It was so much fun, the constant smell of fear." He winked. "you miss it too, don't ya?"

Sam and Dean exchanged a look that said, very clearly and in varying degrees, "What the fuck?"

"So.. ahem..." John snapped his fingers, bringing their focus back to him. "Was this a monumental waste of time for me? Are you both, after all the time we've spent together, just gonna tell me to piss off? Because there's a band in West Hollywood, got themselves in a little deep.. they'd sure be grateful for a little intervention, huh?"

Dean had enough, twenty-odd years of enough. He refused to let his father, or whatever the hell he was, walk out without a backward glance. Again.

"Look," Dean said through clenched teeth. "No matter what Sammy and I have done or seen, no matter what, we had the best of intentions. We thought we were _helping_ people... not showing up at your potential crime scenes for a preview." He wiped a hand across his forehead in frustration, the fear gone, and sheer disappointment welling up to fill the void.

"We grew up _scared_, Dad," he said quietly. "Scared of people, scared of demons, but most of all, scared of you. You didn't didn't turn us into little versions of you, because of all the things we fought against, everything we faced, we always hated you the most." He paused, then added "you can't turn into something you hate that much."

"Whew, venom... okay, then... I wish you boys luck." John stood up, dusting his hands on the thighs of his jeans and adjusting the collar on his leather jacket. "Because, after all the shit you've done in the name of good, ha ha ha... Heaven don't want ya.. and Hell wouldn't take you on a bet." He walked out of the room without a backward glance.

**Lawrence, Kansas, December 1982**

Four year old Dean Winchester stood outside the tool shed in the backyard of his house, his baby brother Sammy in his arms.

Daddy had said "Stay inside, keep Sammy warm."

But Daddy had been gone along time, out back with The Man. Daddy seemed mad at The Man, and took him out to the tool shed so no one could hear what they were saying. That had been a while ago, and Sammy was getting fussy and wanted his bottle, and Daddy told Dean never to touch the microwave. Ever, ever. Maybe not even when he was grown up.

So Dean bundled baby Sammy into his yellow blanket and crunched through a thin crust of snow on the ground toward the metal shed. He couldn't hear the yelling anymore, which made Dean happy. Dean hated yelling. He scuffed his feet on the uneven cement shed step, bits of ice crackling under his sneakers. He shifted Sammy to his right hip, just like Mommy used to do, before Mommy went away to be with the Angels. Dean hated Angels. Now they had Mommy all to themselves, and Dean was stuck with Daddy. He pulled a face and listened at the door. The voice was Daddy's, Dean was sure.

"I wish you luck. Because, after all the shit you've done in the name of good, ha ha ha... Heaven don't want ya.. and Hell wouldn't take you on a bet."

A single shot rang out, then a thud. Dean startled, stepped back, and clutching his little brother in his arms, ran back to the house as fast as he could. He would pretend that never happened.


End file.
